


There's something there

by fahrouche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fahrouche/pseuds/fahrouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Floreal suggests Grantaire visit the haunted castle deep in the woods for painting motivation, the last thing he expects is to end up face-to-face with an oversized beast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's something there

**Author's Note:**

  * For [defractum (nyargles)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/gifts).



> I honestly have no idea how all of this got written it's kind of a miracle. 
> 
> Special thanks to [Ali](http://imxlittlebifurious.tumblr.com/) for helping me edit and for listening to me rant about the symmetry of French gardens, and to [Emily](http://grantairely.tumblr.com/) for helping me figure out who was going to be what.  
> Happy Valentines, defractum!!!

Grantaire is sweeping and studiously ignoring the easel in the corner when Floreal gets back.

He hears a horse outside their home and rushes to throw open the door, and Floreal’s there and dismounting from Josephine. She turns and gives him a giant smile, arms wide and waiting for a hug. She’s warm and familiar, loose strands of hair tickling his nose.

“Did you leave any dirt on the road or did you take all of it with you?” he asks, and she swats him on the arm.

“It’s like you don’t even want your surprise,” she says. Grantaire perks up even more.

“You got me something?”

Floreal just laughs, like it’s obvious, and Grantaire gets Josephine unsaddled and tucked in the barn. By the time he gets back inside, she’s changed into something cleaner, left her old clothes on the floor, and is curled up in his favourite chair by the fireplace. He huffs and pretends to be annoyed, but she rolls her eyes and points at the other chair. Soon as Grantaire sits down, her feet are in his lap.

Because he is a nice person on occasion, Grantaire starts rubbing them. It’s nice to see Floreal melt even more into the chair, especially since she’s been away for weeks.

“I always forget how long it takes to go through the forest,” Floreal groans. “Think I got lost for a bit today.” Grantaire’s thumbs stop rubbing into her arches, and she frowns. “Only for a little! The path was a little overgrown, I I got sidetracked in that old castle, it was okay!”

“The haunted castle? The one where people went missing when they tried looting it? _That castle in the woods_?”

“You make it sound terrifying.”

“It’s a haunted castle where people went missing,” Grantaire says, dry.

Floreal shrugs. “It was completely empty. The furniture is in great shape, considering it’s all been gathering dust for years.”

How Grantaire manages not to wince at her mention of things gathering dust is a mystery to himself. He can’t help a quick glance at his easel, not a single painting or half-done piece anywhere near it. His brushes aren’t in their container beside the easel, either - they’re tucked away in the cabinet, along with his palette. Before Floreal had left to visit family, he’d put them away, and at her questioning look had told her then that he was just taking a short break to get some new ideas. He'd tucked them away even before she left to visit family in another town, motivation lost as ideas withered before they could fully form. Floreal follows his look and twists her head to look at the corner, then turns back to glare at him.

“ _Grantaire._ ”

“So I haven’t gotten any new ideas yet,” he says. Floreal doesn’t stop glaring, just raises her eyebrow. “I’ve been trying to think of things, but I haven’t gotten anywhere.”

With a sigh, Floreal just leans back in her chair. “You’re lucky that your present is supposed to be a suggestion for getting ideas.”

Grantaire starts rubbing her feet again, rather than say anything. Floreal seems to take his silence for what it is. “I wouldn’t have gone into the castle if I hadn’t seen the garden. It was huge, and overflowing, all sorts of beautiful flowers. You’d love it. And,” she says, pausing, “It would be perfect for you to paint.”

“You want me to paint the gardens of a haunted castle, in the woods, where people have gone missing,” Grantaire says, flat. His derision must be clear, because Floreal gets to her feet and finds her travel bag.

“It’s really not as bad as it sounds, the castle’s only a few hours away. You don’t even have to go inside, just - look.”

She’s got something cupped in her hand when she holds it out to Grantaire, and he peers at it. It’s a flower - a fat rose, blooming as the huge number of petals push it open. Soft, velvety red gives way to maroon in the shadows between petals. It’s beautiful.

“There’s huge rose bushes, and climbing ones all up the walls of the garden,” Floreal is saying, but it’s muted while Grantaire takes the bloom from her. His fingers brush one of the outermost petals, and it’s soft beneath reverent fingertips. “There’s so many roses, think of the scenes you could paint.”

Grantaire can imagine, even though he’s never seen the castle in the woods himself. Red roses like this climbing up the walls of creamy stone, suspended over thick, lush bushes of roses and who knows what other flowers. For the first time in weeks, he wants to start mixing paints, red and green and every colour under the sky. He wants his brushes, so he can paint.

Floreal, Grantaire decides, is a very smart person.

*

It’s another week before Grantaire is able to leave for the castle. Even then, Floreal had to almost push him out the door of their home, assuring him that _yes, she could manage without him for a few days, she had plenty of times before, yes Grantaire, you have all your painting supplies, your easel’s folded up in Josephine’s saddlebag and the canvases are tied on the other side, I helped you pack your food, off you go._

Before he left, she even tucked a map, making exactly where to leave the trail to get to the castle, into his pocket.

The ride is peaceful enough, sunlight filtering between tall trees and falling on the tiny green plants trying in vain to push themselves upwards. The path is well trod, not infrequently used, but the fork that leads to the castle, according to the map Floreal slipped him, is overgrown and hidden by weeds and vines.

Grantaire stops Josephine with a gentle tug on the reins, dismounting so he can make sure it’s the right spot. Floreal had noted the branch from a large maple, shaped like an arch over where the path had been, on the side of the map. He can see the branch easily enough, over slightly shorter weeds than those around the path. Vines around the branch hang into the trail, and those Grantaire cuts away with his knife.

The path seems to grow even darker the farther down it he goes, the trees closing in overhead. The undergrowth goes sparse. Josephine dislikes it, snorting and slowing down. Twigs crack and snap under her hooves. Grantaire is worried about her spooking and making a break for it when sudden, bright light makes him squint.

Apparently he broke the treeline sooner than he’d realized, and before him now is a tall, unbroken wall of stones.

Grantaire leans forward, looking for the trail. The path seems to wind left, following the wall of the castle, so he follows it.

It’s weird, though. In the forest the path had been heavily grown over, occasionally hard to find, but along the castle it’s… not. There’s no dirt from being worn down from constant, heavy use, but it’s still clear, the grass flattened. Floreal - and everyone else in their town - was positive that the castle was long abandoned, and with its reputation for being haunted no one in town went near it. Apart from Grantaire, apparently, because he’s never had any common sense. Especially where it concerns getting advice from Floreal.

He directs Josephine down the path, getting more and more curious the farther they go. By the time they reach the gate, the path is worn down to the dirt, branching off in several different directions. With a frown, Grantaire considers the various trails into the forest, but enters through the gate instead. Inside is the garden, as promised by Floreal, but wilder and more beautiful than he could have imagined.

Leafy vines have snaked their way up the outer wall surrounding the garden, hiding most of the stones. The grass under Josephine’s hooves is thick and lush, in dire need of cutting but vibrant and bright. What looks to be low hedges border overflowing flower beds, but they’re scraggly. Edging the garden, the flowers and bushes grow taller, and there he sees the roses that had attracted him here in the first place.

Unplucked, they’re somehow even more red than the one Floreal showed him was. Some grow in large clusters, others bloom independently. When Grantaire dismounts and leans in close to a bunch, there are tiny drops of liquid clinging to the petals. It hasn’t rained in a few days, and since it’s not as if anyone is around to water them, it must be dew. Strange, though, since it’s mid-afternoon and any dew should have evaporated in the summer sun. He sniffs at the thick scent of flowers, and sighs.

The tension from his lack of inspiration is melting away, shoulders relaxing. This garden is beautiful, and the only thing stopping him from napping on one of the benches is the looming towers of the castle and the stories about it.

Josephine tugs on the reins still clutched in Grantaire’s hand. He turns, giving her a pat on the nose before leading her to a bench. Looping the reins around the wrought iron arm, he goes for the easel in his saddlebags.

“Why are you here.”

Grantaire jumps, less at someone speaking to him when he thought he was alone and more at the way the words are said. It’s a growl, demanding answers through what has to be a horrific number of teeth.

“I said, _why are you here_.” This time the growling is accompanied by a heavy weight on his shoulder, and when he looks at it there’s a huge, furred paw with wicked claws.

Grantaire is trembling when he slowly turns around, and there’s a giant beast snarling at him. It’s got huge fangs curling from its upper lip, and the other teeth its baring are just as sharp. Josephine whinnies and tries to back away.

“The - the gardens,” he manages to stammer, “My friend thought I should paint the flowers in your garden.”

The beast hisses, and spittle hits Grantaire in the face. “Your friend? I know your friend, she rode in here on that very horse and _stole_ one of my roses.”

Grantaire’s stomach drops. This beast must be why people went missing before, when they went to loot the castle for any remaining treasures, and if it remembers Floreal--  

A long pink tongue flicks over the beast’s teeth and muzzle. “She would be easy to track, what’s to stop me from dragging her back here? Repaying me for her theft?”

“Please - no. Leave her alone,” Grantaire begs. The thought of the beast going near Floreal, attacking her, makes him want to be sick. Floreal’s all he has, he can’t let the beast have her.  “I’ll do anything. Don’t kill her, please.”

“Did I say I was going to kill her?”

“No, but-”

“What would you give me in exchange for her?” the beast demands.  

His eyes darting around, Grantaire tries to think of what the beast might want instead of Floreal. Whatever it wants, absolutely anything in the world, but not his best friend. “Me,” he blurts.

Drawing back, the beast studies him. Grantaire feels like shrinking when he sees how tall the beast is, towering over him. A massive golden mane surrounds its head, tiny locks of fur shivering in the breeze. “You would give me yourself,” it says.

“I’m not as good as she is, but - please, don’t take her. I’m here, you can have me.”

The beast seems to consider his offer, a low rumble in his throat the whole time. “Fine. You’ll stay here until I say otherwise.”

Several hours later he’s been shut in what will, according to his new… host, be his room. It’s luxurious and the wide window overlooks the garden. In a way, it feels kind of like the beast is playing a cruel trick on him - look at what you gave up everything for, why don’t you - though Grantaire is, at least, thankful it’s not a broom closet.

He had heard the beast lock the door after shoving Grantaire in, and a few minutes later Grantaire had plastered himself to a window and watched as the beast coaxed Josephine into calming down, before taking the reins and leading her away, hopefully to somewhere comfortable and not the kitchens. That horse was all he had now of home.

Well, her and his painting supplies, which were leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

With a sigh, Grantaire flops onto the bed. It’s far softer than it really has any right to be. He rolls onto his back and looks up at the delicate designs on the ceiling, since it’s at least artistic enough to be interesting to him, with the bonus of not having wronged him. Or, rather, the ceiling hangs out and looks pretty, it just unfortunately exists in a place that threatened Floreal and then locked him in a massive bedroom until he could paint something that moves.

He has had far better days, frankly.

He's been laying there for a while when there’s a tiny rapping on the door. "Excuse me, new guest?" An equally tiny voice says, low to the floor outside his room. "Would you care for some tea?"

"The, uh, door is locked, I don't have a key."

"Piff!" The voice is quiet enough that Grantaire slides off the bed and lies on the floor next to the door, just to hear it better.

A second tiny voice says "It's locked from the inside, ask the door to unlock so we can come in!"

Brow furrowed, Grantaire looks up at the handle and feels silly when he says "Would you let them in, please?" Whoever they are.

To his surprise, a chipper voice says "Since you have such lovely manners, I will" and, with a click, the door swings open.

There's no one outside to come in. At least, that's what Grantaire thinks until there’s soft clinking and when he looks down, it’s - it’s a teapot hopping into his room, with a creamer and sugar bowl hopping behind it.

“Already getting the hang of the place, I’m impressed,” one of them says.

Grantaire stares.

“Bossuet, you’re startling him,” And Grantaire thinks it’s the creamer who says that, because little bubbles pop on the surface of the milk. It’s a possibility that he’s hallucinating somehow.

"I complimented him, that's all," the sugar bowl (Bossuet?) retorts, spoon spinning around the edge of the dish.

The teapot seems unperturbed by this,  instead hopping up to Grantaire’s feet. ”I take it that we’re the first people you’ve met here besides Enjolras?” it asks.

“Who’s Enjolras?” Grantaire asks. He’s talking to the teapot. He can’t believe he’s talking to the teapot.

“The Master of the house,” says the sugarbowl. Bossuet. He’s calling it Bossuet because that seems to be its name, unless the creamer is Bossuet. And now he’s thinking of the tea set as people. “The, uh, big lion guy.”

Somehow, knowing the beast’s name makes it seem all the more human, which is still odd because it’s a giant lion-faced beast. “Oh.”

“I think Combeferre is still trying to talk to him about why threatening people who wander in and like his flowers is a bad idea,” the creamer says, sounding almost thoughtful. “He really doesn’t like people touching the roses.”

“Gossip after, we’ve got tea to serve,” the teapot gestures for a silent teacup to come hopping in the room, and then pours a steaming cup of tea once it stays still. “How do you take your tea?”

“Milk, two teaspoons of sugar, please.”

“Oh no,” the teapot groans. The milk in the creamer bubbles a little before the spout tips over the cup.

“Be careful drinking that,” the creamer says, and it sounds positively _gleeful_. “It’s dairy hot.”

The creamer makes puns. Really, honestly, terrible puns, and Grantaire can feel his cheeks stretch with a giant grin. “That was udderly awful.”

The sugar bowl is dumping in sugar and stirring it with its spoon. “Hey Musichetta, Joly’s got a new pun buddy.”

“Just what we needed,” the teapot says. Grantaire is going to guess it’s Musichetta, which means the creamer is Joly. He can work this this. “Try the tea before it gets cold.”

Grantaire lifts the cup and sips it, sighing. “It’s really good,” he says, and Musichetta looks pleased.

“What’s your name?” Joly asks, hopping closer. “You’re our guest, and we don’t even know it yet, we’ve gotten _slack_.”

“Grantaire. Nice to meet you.”

“Welcome to the castle!” Joly chirps. “I would bow, but I don’t have much of a waist anymore, and I’d spill my milk.”

Grantaire isn’t sure what to make of that. “It’s okay?”

“Very kind!” Bubbles of milk appear on the surface.

He sips the tea again, then glances at the still-silent cup in his hand. “Hey, so, uh. If you three can talk and everything, why can’t-”

“It was never alive,” Musichetta says, “It’s only enchanted. There’s a mix of both in the castle: alive, and enchanted.”

“What’s the difference?” he asks.

Musichetta doesn’t reply immediately, instead glancing at Joly and Bossuet. Grantaire can only assume they’re talking silently, considering the way Bossuet’s spoon spins dizzying circles in his rim, or the way steam pours from Musichetta’s spout or the panicky froth of bubbles in Joly’s milk. Finally they turn back to Grantaire. “We used to be human,” she says.

They don’t tell him much - just that everyone in the castle is caught in a curse. Enjolras’s curse, specifically. There’s no explanation of the reason he was cursed into a beast, or why it turned everyone else into objects and furniture, and they don’t tell Grantaire how it is that Enjolras resides in a castle that, until some years ago, was still frequented by the royal family.

“Don’t mention that around Enjolras,” Bossuet warns. “He really doesn’t like the monarchy.”

Ultimately, all he gets out of them is that they’re all people and that the story is Enjolras’s to tell, if Enjolras wants to tell Grantaire.

Grantaire isn’t holding his breath on that. He’s going to have nightmares about Enjolras killing Floreal for weeks. Years, if he lives that long.

The whole situation is a mess in so many ways.

Grantaire mulls it over, lying flat on the floor and staring up at the ceiling. Not much of it makes sense to him, and it seems that Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta aren't likely to answer many of his questions, too loyal to Enjolras to betray his secrets. All the same though,  he'll ask what he can, and there's some that, to him, appear far enough removed from the situation that he might get an answer. "How did you know the door was locked from the inside?"

Bossuet tilts to one side, his spoon swinging around where its low. "Enjolras asked it to. I think he said it would give you a little more privacy and security."

"How would I know that if he never told me?"

"He gets caught up in the moment really easily," Joly tells him.

Grantaire thinks about the garden and yeah, he can see that.

*

There’s no sign nor sound of Enjolras for several hours, and Grantaire is delighted to discover that he gets on quite well with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. Even if the three of them are ceramic, they’re full of jokes and laughter that leaves him smiling until there’s a loud pounding on the door.

“You’re eating dinner with me,” Enjolras growls on the other side of the door.

Grantaire must be either bold from the last few hours or delirious with fear, because he just calls back “I don’t hear a please!”

For a second, there’s no sound from Enjolras. Then there’s quiet, feminine-sounding laughter and Enjolras grumbling what sounds like an exasperated “Please eat dinner with me.”

“Well that’s more like it.” Grantaire shimmies back so he doesn’t knock over any of the tea set and stands up. When he opens the door, Enjolras has a feather duster on his shoulder, and several of the feathers cling to his mane to stay in place. It’s still snickering. “What are we having?”

The feather duster clears its throat. “Roast duck.”

Somehow Grantaire feels cheered at the way Enjolras’s teeth are gritted. It’s nice to see him irritated, when it doesn’t involve him threatening people, and it might be a little petty for Grantaire to enjoy it, but he thinks he’s allowed to be a little petty. “I guess I’ll follow you to the dining room, unless we’re eating in my room?”

“The table is set downstairs,” Enjolras says, and turns around without waiting for Grantaire. The black tip of his tail twitches from side to side, it’s a little hypnotizing.

Before he follows, Grantaire ducks his head in the bedroom. “Do you three need help going downstairs?”

“We’ll be fine,” Bossuet says. “We’re used to it, see you downstairs.”

Musichetta and Joly voice their agreement, and Grantaire leaves to follow Enjolras. He has to jog to catch up, but he finds him and the feather duster easily enough.

The feather duster turns to look at Grantaire, and he can see it smile. “Welcome to the castle. Grantaire, right?” When he nods, the feather duster continues. “I’m Courfeyrac. It’s a pleasure.”

The food is delicious, even if the meal is awkward. A carving knife and fork cut delicate slices of duck and place them on Grantaire’s plate while spoons help up potatoes and vegetables. A gravy boat floats above his plate, as if asking whether or not he wants any. “Um, could I have some on the side?” he asks, unsure if he’s doing it right, but the gravy boat just pours some gravy into an empty spot on his plate.

Across the table, Enjolras has a whole roast duck, and waves away the spoons offering vegetables with a clawed paw. He grabs the duck and just… bites into the side.

Grantaire stares, fork halfway to his mouth.

As soon as Enjolras looks at Grantaire, he swallows. “Cutlery and I don’t agree.”

“Ah.”

Both of them are silent then, Grantaire eating slowly, and to his surprise Enjolras doesn’t bite right into his own duck after that. He uses his claws to carve out large pieces and eats them, one by one. It’s still eating with his hands, sure, but it’s better than hearing the bones crack and break as he rips the duck apart.

Enjolras finishes before him, and lifts a paw to his mouth as if to lick it. Before he does, he lowers it and leans down to Musichetta, sitting beside his table setting. “I need a bowl of water.”

She leaves, riding a wheeled cart. Grantaire drinks his wine and watches, curious to see what Enjolras needs the water for.

To his surprise, it’s to wash the grease from his paws. Enjolras murmurs something to Musichetta when her cart returns with a large bowl, and soon as he wets his paws the long fur hangs limp. He catches Grantaire watching when he wipes them with a towel, and when he explains this time it’s with what might be a smile. “Fur holds a lot of water.”

Grantaire can feel his face go red. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I guess you wouldn’t.”

Musichetta rolls away with the used bowl, and Enjolras turns back to Grantaire. “It’s been suggested that I apologise for my behaviour in the garden, and I agree with the people who suggested it. I’m sorry.” Grantaire nods, unable to talk with a mouth full of roast duck. It seems good enough for Enjolras, either way, since he says, “I have to take my leave. If you need anything, the servants can assist you.”

He’s gone then, pushing away from the table and disappearing through a door. Grantaire just sighs and finishes his meal in silence.

*

The following morning finds Grantaire wandering the halls of the castle. He hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Enjolras since Enjolras had left the table the night before, and while he’s definitely curious to ask about the cause and terms of the curse, he’s also more than okay with not being snarled at.

The heads on the suits of armour turn to follow him as he passes them, squeaking slightly from years without maintenance. Now that he knows that everything here is either alive or enchanted, it’s not startling to hear echoed voices of chatter or bickering, and is almost comforting. The castle is definitely bizarre and alien, but everyone loves gossip.

“Having fun?”

Grantaire looks down, and there’s Courfeyrac beaming at his feet. “Mostly getting lost, this place is huge.”

“Try dusting it,” she jokes, swishing her feathers. She gestures for him to pick her up with two of them, and he places her on his shoulder.

“How long does it normally take?” he asks.

“By the time the other feather dusters and I finish, we have to start over again,” she tells him, which is answer enough.

They keep walking, and every time they come to a door Grantaire pokes his head inside to take a look. Courfeyrac asks him about the town he’s from, and when he says that he’s glad to be at the castle instead of Floreal she sighs.

“You must really care for her,” she says, sounding wistful.

“We grew up together, she’s like my sister.”

For some reason that makes Courfeyrac happy, and she bounces on his shoulder.

Grantaire reaches another set of doors, fully closed. Most of the doors he’s passed so far have been pulled shut but not fully closed, and he’s turning the handle to open it when Courfeyrac says, “No!”

He stops. “What?”

“You can’t go in there,” she says. The door is already partially open, but all he can see inside is a painting above a fireplace. The face has been ripped to shreds, the canvas hanging in ragged strips. Grantaire is dying to know the story behind it, but he obliges Courfeyrac and closes the door.

He starts walking again, and it feels like Courfeyrac is fidgeting, feathers moving to and fro endlessly. “That’s Enjolras’s private reading room,” she tells him, “You can’t go in there unless he says. He would’ve been really upset to find you there.”

“She’s right.”

Grantaire turns around, and Enjolras is standing in the middle of the hall, arms crossed. When Grantaire doesn’t say anything, he continues. “I’ve - been told that I’m quick to anger, and there are very personal things in that room.”

Grantaire can read between the lines.

“You want your space,” he says, shrugging with his free shoulder. Enjolras nods.

“Exactly.”

Courfeyrac huffs, brushing Grantaire’s cheek with a ticklish feather. “I’ve got work to do, so Enjolras, why don’t you show him around the castle?”

Grantaire’s still looking at Enjolras, and doesn’t get why Enjolras glares at Courfeyrac, but Enjolras nods again. “If you’d like.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He places Courfeyrac on the floor and watches her scuttle off before Enjolras clears his throat. “Follow me.”

Falling into step, Grantaire watches Enjolras’s back. The golden man falls over a fair swathe of the red cloak Enjolras wears, and maybe it’s not so much mane as it is hair? Musichetta mentioned that Enjolras had been human once, too, perhaps his hair was as much a mane as it was hair now. Or his hair had been changed into a mane? What is the proper terminology for anatomy of cursed body parts, anyways.

He’s so busy pondering the problem that he doesn’t notice Enjolras talking at first. “-up to your room.”

“Sorry?” Grantaire asks, feeling a bit stupid for getting distracted.

“I had your saddlebags brought up to your room,” Enjolras repeats.

It’s been overwhelming enough to deal with his imprisonment and the discovery of the curse that Grantaire had forgotten all about them. There’s a pang of guilt in his chest as he thinks about Josephine. “How’s my horse?”

“In the stables. She’s been given fresh hay and water.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire says. “I was worried she…”

Enjolras turns his head back to Grantaire. “Did you think I was going to eat her?” he asks, voice flat.

“...Maybe.”

For whatever reason that makes Enjolras snort, and with the way he talks with a permanent growl makes it sound odd. “Despite my appearance, I wouldn’t eat a horse. Particularly not one as obviously well-cared for.”

“Floreal and I do what we can. Did.”

Enjolras looks forwards, but keeps talking. “Does she have any other horses to use, since you’re here?”

Grantaire thinks of their tiny cottage on the outskirts of the town, the few animals they’ve coaxed into adulthood. The small henhouse where they get fresh eggs to sell in the town, the pregnant sow who should give birth in a month or so. The small pasture where Josephine grazed. “No. She’s on her own.”

“Oh. Will it be difficult for her to manage without a horse?”

“We’ve got a small farm,” Grantaire bites out. It’s Enjolras’s fault that Floreal’s alone now, how can he just make pleasant conversation about it? His heart is aching as he thinks about her. She doesn’t even know yet that he won’t be back, since they’d planned for him to be gone a couple days, and they’d been able to budget that in the work around the farm, but before long she’ll need a horse. “She doesn’t even have a way to and from town now, let alone a way to pull the cart. You saw to that.”

The tips of Enjolras’s rounded ears turn back, and he dips his head. “I already apologised. Did you want to hear it again?”

Grantaire can’t look at him anymore. Not when it’s hitting him how he’s left Floreal alone and without help. The lump forming in his throat is choking him, but he manages to spit out “It’s not going to help” before he walks away.

*

He’s laying on his bed several hours later, staring out the window at the sky. Word of his misery must have spread fast, because shortly after Grantaire lies down there was a knock on his door from a broom and a decorative fan. They call themselves Bahorel and Feuilly, and the pair of them are determined to cheer him up.

Feuilly’s an artist, and before the curse she served to paint whatever was wished of her. Her favourite, she tells Grantaire, was to paint the fans that were requested on occasion by the ladies. “It was much more fun to paint the patterns on the fans than portraits, though I liked those as well,” she says.

Grantaire thinks of the ragged painting he’d caught a glimpse of in Enjolras’s room. “In a room Enjolras doesn’t want me to go in - there was a painting above the fireplace. I don’t know what it was, it’s been ruined, was that one of yours?”

It catches both Feuilly and Bahorel offguard, and Feuilly’s painted eyes blink. “I. Yes, if I know the one you’re talking about. That was finished a month or two before the curse. I thought Enjolras burned it, honestly.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Bahorel scoffs, leaning stiff against the wall.

“You sound very sure,” Grantaire says.

Bahorel makes an affirmative sound. “Since a lot of us couldn’t do our jobs anymore after the curse, much of what was left became special. Look at Feuilly - she can’t exactly paint anymore, and that painting was one of her best.”

“But it was ripped to shreds.”

“That happened in the very first days,” Feuilly says, and she sounds sad. “ _Very_ early. Enjolras especially was reeling from the change - most of us just had to figure out how to move around and talk, but he had all these instincts that were supposed to make him a monster.” She sighs. “My painting was a reminder of what he lost, and he clawed it because of that. I used to be angry, but I’m not anymore.”

Grantaire sits up, tilting his head to one side. “Why? I’d be heartbroken, if it was me.”

Feuilly flaps towards the door, and Grantaire checks that it’s firmly shut before she continues. “He hates being reminded of it, but he was losing himself a lot back then,” she whispers, “More animal than human. After he saw me react to the painting, he started coming back to himself.”

“Sometimes I see him running into the woods on all fours,” Bahorel says. “I think that’s when he’s at his worst, and if he lets it out in the woods than he can’t hurt any of us. He doesn’t talk about it, so please don’t tell him what we said.”

“He tries to take care of us,” Feuilly says. “Most of us aren’t as mobile as we used to be and we’re all a lot more breakable, so he tries. He wants us to be happy.”

Grantaire looks at the window again. The more he learns about Enjolras, the more confusing it is. It’s all a far cry from the furious, snarling beast who had demanded his pound of flesh less than twenty-four hours before, and instead it’s more like someone who - is really, really bad with emotions. He’d apologized for the garden incident, even if he admitted that he’d been coerced into doing it. He had gotten Josephine tucked in a stable that was, from what little he knew, comfortable. Temper aside, Enjolras was probably a pretty okay guy. Beast. Human. Cursed person. Whatever.

He even felt deep seated guilt over destroying a deeply beloved painting when he was, as Grantaire understood it, out of his mind. Grantaire wasn’t one for restoring art - but he was good (or, rather, good enough) at creating it.

Deciding whether or not to go to dinner that night is a tough choice. Enjolras hasn't said if he expects Grantaire to eat with him, but Grantaire finds himself expecting an invitation anyways. He's not disappointed, and Grantaire is talking about paint mixing with Feuilly when there's a knock on the door, much more hesitant than the previous night.

"Will you be eating?" Enjolras asks.

He still doesn't want to look at Enjolras. Can't, without remembering that Floreal doesn't even know yet that he won't be home. Grantaire glances at Feuilly, asking without words for her opinion. She shrugs, closing and opening briefly. "Not tonight."

"Fine," Enjolras says. There's more growl in his words, as though he's irritated by that answer. "Don't go near the stables unless you ask me first."

"What?" Where did that come from?

"Temporarily off-limits."

Enjolras must be done with the  conversation then, because Grantaire hears the floor creak under Enjolras’s weight. He blinks.  "Do you know what that's about?" He asks Feuilly.

"Not a clue," she says. 

*

Since the stables are, for whatever reason, banned to Grantaire, he winds up in the library. It’s huge, with metal staircases that spiral up three stories to the very top floors, and every wall and floor is books. It’s beautiful, and the tall windows let natural light in for what must be most of the day. He brushes his fingers over the shelves, occasionally pulling out a book that looks intriguing. He replaces several before finding one to keep, and he relaxes on one of the loveseats lining a wall to read.

There’s a delicate cough behind his head. “Sorry to bother you, but would get me a book?”

Grantaire jumps, and all he can see is the side of a free-standing bookcase. Common sense says that there must be someone behind the bookcase, but after making puns with the creamer and talking about painting with a fan, he’s not doubting anything.

“Any requests?” he asks, standing up. There’s no one hiding behind the bookcase, but one of the top shelves is thicker than the other and there’s two knots that resemble eyes. Then they blink.

“Something with entomology, please. Those are are on the second floor, just to the right of the right window.”

The bookcase speaks with a book on its side. He’s seen weirder, so Grantaire’s going to roll with it.

He goes up the stairs and finds the entomology section. “How does _Papilionum Brittaniae Icones_  sound?” he calls out.

“Perfect!” the bookcase calls back.

Grantaire brings the book down, hesitating. “How do you-”

“Just put it on any of my shelves,” the bookcase says. “However it works, if it’s on my shelf I can read it.” Grantaire puts it on a low shelf, and the bookcase sighs contendedly. “This is one of my favourites. I’m Combeferre, by the way, and you must be Grantaire.”

Somehow that name is familiar, but he can’t place it. “My reputation precedes me?”

“Enjolras is very good at talking for long periods of time.”

That makes it click. “You’re the one who got Enjolras to apologize, aren’t you?” he asks.

“He felt bad, once he calmed down,” Combeferre says. “It was mostly keeping him in one place until he got to that point.”

Grantaire nods, sitting on the floor in front of Combeferre. “Either way, it’s appreciated.”

“Combeferre?”

Enjolras slinks into the library then, walking on all fours. It’s the first time Grantaire has ever seen him doing it, and as soon as Enjolras looks at Grantaire he straightens, walking on his back feet. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were in here. I wasn't sure if you wanted to avoid me after yesterday. ” It's nice of Enjolras to tell him point-blank that he was giving Grantaire space, and Grantaire appreciates it even if he doesn't mind Enjolras being around. He feels hollow thinking about Floreal, but he's okay. 

“It’s fine, we were talking about you anyways,” Combeferre says. Enjolras frowns, and the pages in Combeferre’s book-mouth curl into what must be a smile. “Your eloquence in spur-of-the-moment, long speeches is unrivalled.”

Grantaire snorts. Enjolras looks like he sucked on a lemon, but it only makes him look like a housecat despite the giant saberteeth. “Don’t let me stop you,” he says. Grantaire pats the floor beside him, and to his surprise Enjolras sits down, laying down with his front hands resting in front of him on the ground.

Part of Grantaire really wants to try scratching behind Enjolras’s ear, but he also does not want to tempt fate. But he’s pretty sure Enjolras might purr. At the very least, he hopes Enjolras would.

“You really didn’t interrupt anything, I was getting Combeferre a book before starting my own,” he says. Enjolras looks interested.

“What’re you reading?”

“Something by Voltaire.” Grantaire reaches for it on the couch, checking the title. “ _Zadig_.”

“That’s a good one.”

Grantaire leans against the side of the couch. “I can read out loud, if you want?”

“That sounds nice, thank you.” Enjolras smiles, and the whiskers on his muzzle twitch.

The book is good, and Grantaire doesn’t even notice the time passing. At some point Enjolras rests his head on his hands, purring. It makes Grantaire falter in his reading momentarily, and Enjolras cracks one blue eye open, but he keeps going. Eventually his voice starts to crack and he has to stop.

Enjolras frowns. “I should have asked for some tea, rather than have you keep reading.”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire says, though he knows he sounds anything but. He clears his throat and tries again. “It’s been a long time since I sat down and read anything, it was nice.”

“In that case, I’m glad you had the chance.”

Bahorel knocks on the door then, sticking his handle in. “Enjolras, you wanted to know when-”

“Yes, thank you,” Enjolras says, cutting him off. “Sorry to cut this short, Grantaire. I’ll see you at dinner?”

Grantaire nods, and with a smile Enjolras gets to his feet and leaves with Bahorel.

*

A month passes.

Grantaire learns to love the castle. The people stuck there are his friends - Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are wonderful to hang out with, and when they go to do their work he always ends up with a huge grin. Feuilly is a genius with painting, and even if she can’t hold a paintbrush Grantaire learns a lot from her. Bahorel has promised a boxing match, if the curse ever breaks. Combeferre and Courfeyrac he sees less of, but they always greet him with a smile and some chatter. His doorknob, who he now knows is named Jehan, quotes poetry to wake him up in the morning and refuses to unlock for anyone when Grantaire asks.

He learns Enjolras’s moods and personality. He goes for runs in the woods after dinner, occasionally disappears for hours during the day. His tail swishes in long strokes when he’s content, his whiskers twitch when he’s annoyed. Enjolras is a clever conversationalist, but stubbornly silent when it comes to his history, related to the curse or not.

Grantaire is a little fonder of him every day.

Surprisingly, he doesn't feel very homesick, though he misses Floreal. For the most part, he's too distracted by his friends to think about the farm - which he can't think of as home anymore. The block stopping him from painting doesn't disappear, but it eases enough that Grantaire works on sketching, though he doesn't show any of them to any one. One of the first sketches he does is of Enjolras, lazing in a pool of sunlight and napping. He stuffs it under his pillow and keeps it a secret. 

He's reading in his room one day when there's a knock on the door, and Grantaire looks up. “Enjolras wants you, if you’re free,” Jehan tells him. Grantaire closes the book.

“You can let him in.”

He’s a little startled when Enjolras walks in, because Enjolras looks anxious, almost nervous. He’s fiddling with the clasp on his cloak, and Grantaire is sure that if he didn’t have sharp teeth Enjolras would be gnawing on his lip. “Could you come with me?”

Grantaire nods. “What is it?”

“A surprise. In the stables.”

That alone is a surprise. Grantaire’s been banned from the stables for a while, so he really misses  Josephine. All the same, he follows Enjolras. None of the servants are in the halls, but when he looks closely he can see most of them peering out from doorways, watching.

“You said that your friend had no horse, since you were here,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire blinks.

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

Enjolras huffs. “I listened.” He keeps walking, pausing before the door to the stables. “It’s my fault, so I wanted to fix it.”

He opens the door to the stables and leads Grantaire to a stall in the back, where a handsome dark draft horse neighs. “Before the curse, there were horses here. None of us have aged under the spell, including them. He’s been retrained and back in shape, so you can take him to your friend.”

Grantaire reaches a trembling hand out to it. The horse lets Grantaire pat him on the nose. “You’re giving us a horse?”

“You’ve been here a month without complaint. If anything, everyone’s been happier since you got here,” Enjolras says. “I owe you this. Visit your friend.”

He looks at Enjolras with wide eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you worried I won’t - come back?”

Enjolras’s nose curls with a large exhale. “I trust you. I hope you’ll come back.”

Grantaire’s tormented. Delighted at the chance to see Floreal, but the castle’s become his home, and Enjolras has become a special friend. He wants to leave, but he wants to stay. His hand drops from the horse’s nose, and he steps away. “Two weeks. I’ll come back in two weeks.”

That makes Enjolras look relieved, and he nods. “Take your horse with you, tie Phillipe on. Go before it gets too late in the day.

Two weeks back at the farm with Floreal. With their pigs and chickens and leaky roof. Grantaire feels a warm spot in his chest, and goes to saddle up Josephine.

*

Floreal shrieks when she sees him. It’s immediately followed by a hug and a hard whack on the arm.

“I thought you were dead!”

“No, I’m okay, not dead, just living in a cursed castle.”

He tells her the story and gives her the reins to Phillipe, and she hits him again. Grantaire’s missed those punches.

Two weeks pass too quickly, and he’s grown soft from living in a luxurious castle. There’s always work to be done at the farm, and Floreal looks at him with pleading eyes. “One more week. Please? Just until the piglets are a little older.”

He stays another week. And then another.

He misses Enjolras and the castle, just as he’d missed Floreal and the farm. In the evenings, when the work is done, he sits in his old chair by the fire and thinks about the rich meals, the library, the too-comfortable beds. Mostly he remembers the smiles Enjolras would make whenever he said something funny, the way he delighted in hearing about the world outside the castle, even if the world was just Grantaire’s town. Somehow Enjolras has become the main thought running through his head, and it feels like that started before returning to the farm, even if he doesn't know exactly when. Floreal sits across from him, arms folded.

“You miss it.”

Grantaire doesn’t want to deny it, so he doesn’t.

“Go back. I can sell the piglets and eggs, maybe take on a farmhand. Visit me from time to time and bring back some treasure, got it?”

He doesn’t move. Instead, Grantaire gets an idea, and he looks up from the fire with a smile. “Come with me.”

It takes far too little work to convince Floreal to go with him, so maybe this was her plan all along.

*

The castle is strangely gloomy when they enter the garden. It hadn’t felt that way to Grantaire for the month that he’d lived there, but the roses almost seem limp where they’d once been velvety. They dismount, and Grantaire can only feel dread when he turns to Floreal. “Go search inside, if you need help just call for someone. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

She nods, and goes for the door at a jog. Grantaire looks in the garden before he goes in, and starts walking the gravel path. It’s not long before he finds the cause of his gloom and dread.

“Enjolras!”

He’s splayed on the side of the path, crushing the flowers on the edge. Enjolras doesn’t move or respond to his name, not even to twitch his tail. Grantaire falls next to him, trying to find a heartbeat or a pulse under the fur.

“I’ve come back, please, wake up, Enjolras, wake up!”

There’s a sound, low in Enjolras’s throat. It’s a piteous whimper, and Enjolras’s eyelids flutter half open. “You came back,” he says, almost silent. Grantaire takes his paw and doesn’t let go.

“Of course I did,” he says, voice trembling. “We didn’t finish our debate on Voltaire yet, you don't get to die on me now.”

“Missed you,” Enjolras mumbles, and the faint grip on Grantaire’s hand slackens. His eyes close again. “Missed you, Grantaire. It hurt to miss you.”

“No no no, wake up!” Grantaire’s head dips as the tears start to fall. He can’t believe that he’s come back, just to see Enjolras die. “Please. Please, wake up. I… I love you, don't die on me now, you _can't_.”

It’s too late. Enjolras is gone. He’s sobbing, now, and Grantaire feels tears drop onto Enjolras’s face when he leans down to press his lips between Enjolras’s eyes. What good was coming back when the best part of the castle died right before his eyes?

Enjolras’s paw, still in Grantaire’s hand, twitches, just slightly. Grantaire looks up, and drops it when it starts to hurt with heat, and Enjolras is glowing. He scrabbles back, as Enjolras’s body glows brighter and brighter, until it’s too much and Grantaire has to look away from the light and the heat, throwing an arm in front of his face but then -  it stops.

He lowers his arm from his eyes, and Enjolras is gone. Instead, there’s a handsome man with golden hair lying in the flowers, wearing Enjolras’s clothes. His eyes squeeze shut, but then open, and oh. The man has Enjolras’s eyes.

Grantaire doesn’t breathe as the man opens his mouth, but pauses. He watches as the man examines his hands and body with a growing smile, and then he turns it on Grantaire and Grantaire’s heart _aches_.

“Grantaire,” the man says.

Grantaire swallows. “...Enjolras?”

The man nods, and Enjolras’s teeth are white and even. He’s beautiful. “You broke the curse,” he says.

“How?”

Enjolras crawls closer, and his hand hovers over Grantaires, as if deciding whether or not to take it. He does, and Enjolras’s smooth skin is warm. “Like this,” he says, and leans in to kiss Grantaire.

It’s not sparks, or explosions of joy, but it’s perfect. Grantaire can feel himself smiling as he throws his arms around Enjolras and doesn’t let go.

“Grantaire!”

It’s Floreal’s voice, and as reluctant as he is Grantaire leans back from Enjolras so he can turn around. Floreal’s running towards them, and behind her are several people in almost old-fashioned uniforms. “What did you do?” she asks, but stops when she sees Enjolras. “Oh.”

Grantaire swallows. “Floreal,” he says, “Meet Enjolras.”

“You did it!” One of the men with Floreal cries, almost jumping up and down. “Do you know how much I have missed legs? No more hopping! No more milk! No more spilling!”

“Joly?” Grantaire guesses, and the man beams. Joly gets to his knees and wraps his arms around Enjolras and Grantaire.

“I’m so proud of both of you,” he says, and maybe it’s the light from the sun but it looks like Joly is getting teary. Grantaire can’t particularly blame him. The rest of the group joins them in the impromptu group hug, and Enjolras’s mouth is squished against the side of Grantaire’s head.

“And we were having such a good moment,” Enjolras says into his ear.

Grantaire laughs. “I don’t think I mind this one much, either," he says, and turns to kiss Enjolras again. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://fahrouche.tumblr.com/)!


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